Did Moschino's creative director Rossella Jardini get lost somewhere between Madrid and Marbella? The show certainly began with a postcard from Spain - the 3D kind with real ruffles on the flamenco dancers that you used to love as a child.

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There were bull fighters a-plenty, their gold beading rattling down the catwalk. Then came the flounces - like a Mexican wave they spread from outfit to outfit, lapping round dresses and making even the skinniest models (yup, they're still putting in time at some shows) look womanly.

Carmen pounded on the soundtrack - fashion editors who'd had a hard night, tough. Out stomped the toreador hats, the infanta head-pieces and fascinators (one of which bounced gamely in time to the music like a nodding dog) and the matador jackets. It was loud and raucous but strangely soothing. You knew were you were - Grenada maybe, or possibly Seville. It could only be a matter of time before a bag shaped like a castanet popped up. A Moschino show likes to work every last angle of a theme.

But then the sat-nav went crazy and suddenly Arizona Muse appeared in a black Stetson, black fringed chiffon shirt and black fringed trousers. That's a heavy burden on anyone, but especially a model who might reasonably have been expecting to wear a beautiful gauzy, wrap, ruffle dress. We were lost in Texas.

But of course we weren't in Texas but in the land of Spaghetti Westerns, in the deserts of southern Spain. Rossella Jardini knew exactly where she was heading, just as she knew exactly what she was doing with that Spanish vibe. Strip away the gimmicks and this collection had some of the best Moschino clothes in years: beautiful yoked below-the-knee skirts, some in lace, a myriad variations on the cream silk blouse, including a backless one and a cavalcade of great little cropped jackets. Cue a gold sequinned tote with words Luxury is Relative on it (and a rich relative will come in handy when you're shopping in Moschino next season) and you're good to go.